1000 Talents
by gigglingpixie
Summary: An interviewer delves into the mind of a modern day Erik. One shot with the possibility of a sequel. Hints of EC. BEWARE: Lots of drooling inside! Please R&R, no flames, please.


**A/N:** This idea came to me a few days ago when walking through the streets of York. It was written in a very short space of time very late at night so apologies for madness.

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**ERIK DESTLER: MAN OF A THOUSAND TALENTS.**

As I watch the world's newest celebrity stride confidently into the studio, bestowing crooked smiles and cheery hellos to the lighting riggers and photographers, I can't help but wonder what, apart from his face, Erik Destler is hiding. He spies the studio owner's upright piano in the corner and makes a beeline for it but is redirected by Sharon, our make-up artist. I hear her promise that he can play later.

His life before August of this year is completely unknown and he seems reluctant to divulge details. However, I manage to squeeze some things out of him before he clams up completely. Born in France to a Swedish mother and French father, Erik grew up in a small town outside Paris. By the time he was fifteen, both his parents had died and he was forced to fend for himself on the streets of Paris. He lived and worked in the Paris Opera House until the age of thirty but still remained relatively unknown except in classical music circles. A scandal involving a young opera singer, Christine Daaé (now 20), who was then engaged to Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, (now 22) thrust all three into the limelight for all the wrong reasons. However, after the death of Raoul's brother, Philippe, peace was made between the three. Raoul and Christine did not marry but remain close friends although there is still some enmity between the two men who were both vying for Christine's attentions. Erik has no contact with Raoul and, as far as we know, limited contact with Christine.

I wander over, taking in the impressive figure dressed in black from head to foot, and introduce myself. He stands from the make-up chair (earning me a disapproving glance from Sharon), takes my hand, and _kisses_ it. "A traditional French upbringing," he smiles apologetically as I try not to collapse in a puddle of mush on the floor. He apologises to Sharon as he sits again and she blushes a deep scarlet as she turns her attention to the brushes on the dressing table.

I hover as Sharon makes him up, and half listen as he takes a phone call from someone who, I assume by the way his face lights up, is his girlfriend. When I question him about the caller, he only smiles mysteriously, leaving me burning with questions that have to wait until after the photo shoot. Sharon's fingers wipe away some of the powder that has gathered along the edge of the leather and he flinches away, golden eyes flashing. She smiles reassuringly and he relaxes to let her continue cleaning off the leather. When she's finished, he stands and kisses her on the cheek before walking off across the room to change behind a screen. Sharon and I share a knowing glance and, as I turn away, I see her press a hand to her cheek. Erik's kisses burn.

Silence falls amongst the women in the room as Erik walks out from behind the screen dressed in his trademark black dress suit, white mask gleaming in the bright lights. His black hair glistens and falls around his face as he moves, emphasising the hard, square line of his jaw. He follows Pete-the-photographer's instructions to the letter, smiling brightly, laughing, and staring sultrily into the camera lens in turn.

I stand at the side and watch the photo shoot progress, trying not to drool at the smoking looks being sent towards the camera. It's a wonder the film hasn't melted by the time Pete declares the shoot over. I wait until Erik's back in his own black jeans and t-shirt (resisting the urge to leap behind the screen and glomp (a fangirl term meaning a cross between a tackle and a hug) him) before I drag him into the corner near the piano armed with my list of questions. We curl up in opposite armchairs and, as the riggers begin to dismantle the set and I've dragged his attention away from the piano, I start on my questions.

"I'm just plain old Erik," he smiles. "I was thrust into the limelight through no fault of my own." I ask him about his numerous talents and he groans quietly, closes his eyes and leans his lithe body back into the chair to begin ticking them off on his long, thin fingers. "I play the organ, piano and violin, and I compose. Mainly classical pieces really, but I write my own lyrics and music for my songs. I'm an artist and an architect, and I have a huge interest in science." His eyes open and he fixes me with a wry smile. "Of course, my experiments don't always go right." He rolls up the sleeve of his crisp white shirt and shows me a large burn scar on his arm.

I lean forward and rest a sympathetic hand on his arm. "Acid," he says simply. "Diluted, fortunately, but it still hurt like a…what's your reader age again? Oh, I think I'll stop there." We share a grin and I move on.

His next single, _Outcast (No-one Would Listen)_, is released on Monday 17th and the video is not so much a publicity stunt, more a work of art. It features Erik wandering around a candle-lit cavern, singing to himself of love and hope. "I did the set design myself," he says, without a hint of modesty. "The artwork in the background is mine as well. Although, I don't live in a cave." The artwork he is talking about bears a strong resemblance to one Christine Daaé but when I decide to be brave and follow up my hunch, his eyes flash and his expression hardens. Before he can make some scathing remark (believe me, he's an expert) or declare our interview over, I interrupt with another question.

Hoping to catch him out, I ask again about the caller from earlier and he eyes me with a half amused, half suspicious expression. "You're not going to let it drop, are you?" I shake my head and he sighs resignedly. "It was a friend of mine-a student, actually. We've got a lesson straight after this so she's going to pop by. And I saw that look when I said 'she'. No reading into it, you. I know what journalists are like." I deflate slightly at his final sentence but it doesn't stop me wanting to meet this student of his that makes his eyes light up and a soft smile spread across his face.

Erik has never spoken openly about his past or his private life, and it seems that this time will be no different. That is, of course until a few minutes later. I was struggling to keep the conversation going when a slight disturbance at the door makes us both look up in irritation.

A female voice is heard over the confusion and Erik obviously recognises it for he is out of his chair and halfway across the room before I realise what is happening. There is a squeal of surprise and joy, and the group of lighting technicians disperses as Erik walks back towards me with his arm around the shoulders of Christine Daaé-even from a distance, the long, chocolate brown curls and coffee coloured eyes are easily recognisable. So much for 'limited contact'. There are bright smiles on both faces as they chatter animatedly but as they approach I can see that Christine is limping slightly. Erik helps her into a seat and makes sure she is comfortable before pulling up a nearby stool and sitting next to her. I introduce myself and ask about the limp. "I twisted my ankle at ballet practise yesterday," she smiles wryly. "Meg's Giry mother works us hard."

Erik glances at her with concern but she doesn't notice. His expression lightens as he turns back to me and says, "This is the caller you were pestering me about. I'm giving Christine her singing lesson after this."

"But, please, don't rush the interview on my account," she interrupts.

"Don't encourage her," replies Erik. "That list is a mile long."

They share a smile and…are they _flirting_! Yes, they are. Sorry, girls, it looks like Monsieur Destler is taken. I ask about Erik's past relationships, hoping to see if Christine will make rise to the debate, but she merely slouches back in her chair, picking at a fingernail and looking slightly embarrassed. "Past relationships? I don't really have any. I'm a confirmed bachelor, I'm afraid. Well, apart from…" Christine clears her throat and he finishes the sentence with a mumbled, 'never mind'. There is definitely something there, or if not, there definitely was.

"Nope, no relationships," says Christine, obviously deciding that her fingernails are far less interesting that she first believed. "I've known Erik a long time," she continues, "and I've never seen him with a woman. Not in that way, anyway."

Now we're coming to the two questions which I had purposefully saved until last. Number one: the scandal. Is there any truth in it? Apparently so. "That was stupid," sighs Erik, leaning forward on the stool and running a hand through his stylishly cut black hair. "I was giving Christine singing lessons when she was seeing…that boy and my jealousy got the better of me."

"I'll say," snorts Christine. "The kidnapping thing was highly exaggerated in the press-I went with him voluntarily loads of times and the one time he pressures me is the one time that everyone remembers." She turns to Erik with a reproachful look. "And his name is Raoul."

He scowls deeply and mutters something about an ignorant fool. She slaps him lightly on the thigh and he turns to her with a sunny smile that would make any other woman melt. Christine seems to be immune, however, for she surveys him with a steady look until he apologises and promises to be nice to "the fop…I mean, Raoul."

Yes, there is some definite flirtation.

Ok, onto the next burning question: what is under the mask? Erik stiffens and his face becomes angry. I fear for my life (no exaggeration) until Christine leans across and rests a gentle hand on Erik's knee. He gives a shaky sigh, seemingly to control his anger before grating out, "I would prefer not to talk about it."

Christine sighs and turns to me with an explanation. "He grew up in a very small, very religious community before moving to Paris. Anything unusual was looked upon as witchcraft or devil worship." Erik looks at her in shock but she goes on. "How do I know? He told me. I've seen what's under the mask-he takes it off when we're alone-and let me tell you it's nowhere as near as bad as he thinks it is. A face infection," she finishes. "That's all it is."

Erik sighs resignedly. "I suppose it will all come out in the end. The paparazzi are everywhere I go trying to get a picture of me without the mask." He fixes me with a controlling gaze. "I will not allow you a picture, but I will allow you a description." With that, he pulls the mask from his face.

Christine makes no move except to grasp his hand and squeeze it tightly. I, however, make a gasp of shock at the sight before me. The right side of his face looks like it has melted: the brow droops and the nose is sunken. The skin is so thin and yellow that every tiny vein is visible. It is reminiscent of the burn on his arm that he so willingly showed me earlier. A few seconds later, the mask is swiftly replaced and I whisper my thanks. "No thanks are necessary," he replies stiffly. "All that remains now is for someone to get a picture of this…hideousness."

Christine and I rush to disagree but my words fall on deaf ears. Hers, however, seem to make an impact. "Erik, you are wonderful. Remember what I told you before Raoul turned up?" She breaks into soft song and even as a non-musician I can tell that her voice is perfectly pitched. "_It's in your soul that the true distortion lies_…"

He watches her and smiles slowly. "Indeed you did say that, angel. I remember it as though it were yesterday."

'Angel', huh? I ask them about their music lessons and immediately both pairs of eyes light up as they warm to their topic. "My range used to be about two and a half octaves," says Christine, "but with Erik's tutoring I can do three." This means nothing to mean so I turn to Erik for an explanation.

He stands and moves over to the nearby piano. "She used to be able to sing from here-" he plays what I am reliably informed is the G below middle C "-to here." He plays the second C above middle. "However, her range is now here-" he plays a low F "-to here." He plays the third F above middle C. "And she pitches all the notes beautifully. She has the voice of an angel." He looks at Christine with admiration, awe and something that looks suspiciously like love. "An angel of music."

"I can just about sing _Der Hölle Rache_ from _The Magic Flute_ now," grins Christine happily, having not heard what Erik has said. "Although I wouldn't like to play the part of The Queen of The Night-sing one impossible aria, sit backstage for an hour and then sing another impossible aria." She sighs and shakes her head. "Mozart was cruel to his leading ladies."

"Nonsense," interrupts Erik, seating himself on the arm of Christine's chair and laying his arm across the back. "If you want an impossible piece, you should see what I've written for you." He produces a sheaf of manuscript paper from what seems to be thin air and hands it to her.

Her eyes bug in a mixture of delight and horror as she takes in the notes that stretch well above the stave. "A high D#? For eight beats? Honestly, Erik, I have to breathe sometimes. And look at the tenor part! Surely a man can't sing that high…or if he can then he can't sing that low as well!"

"I can sing that range," says Erik with a small shrug.

Christine glances up at him and their eyes meet. There is a definite spark between them that everyone can see. Except, it seems, the two people seated in front of me.

As they begin to discuss the music in further detail, I begin to feel like a small, green, hairy fruit so I stand and thank Erik and Christine for their time. I walk over to where Sharon is waiting for me so we can leave together and catch up on the gossip.

We stand outside the main door, and talk with the studio owner for a few moments until our conversation is broken by the beginnings of a beautiful vocal duet with piano accompaniment. The words are in Italian and I don't understand what they're singing but I know it must be about love. Only love could make the two voices swoop and soar in tandem; only love could sound so painful.

The three of us stand in silence until the song finishes. Sharon wipes a tear from her eye as Erik and Christine walk past. "That was beautiful," she sniffs.

"I know," I reply. "I only wish I could understand what it was about."

"I did Italian at school," Sharon replies, "but I'm a bit rusty. The phrase that was most repeated was _angelo di musica_-'angel of music'."

Before I have time to tell Sharon what Erik said only a few minutes ago, there is a yelp of pain from Christine. I turn to see Erik holding onto her hand as she massages her ankle with the other. She gives him a grateful smile as she stands upright again and they move away across the car park to Erik's BMW (black, of course).

Neither makes any effort to separate their hands.

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**A/N:** The definition for 'glomp' comes from _www . langmaker . com/db/engglomp . htm_

_Der Hölle Rache_ is the mad aria with staccato high Fs in it. It's gorgeous but don't have to volume up too high when you're wearing earphones!

Read and Review! (And then go read _In His Darkness_).


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